


I can't make you love me

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, E and R aren't together but that's the whole mess, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras is Not Doing Well™, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, So much angst, and crying, combeferre is a good best friend, singer Enjolras, there is some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 14:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8803612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: Here’s what Enjolras does know: he knows that he hasn’t seen Grantaire since he said he didn’t feel anything for him when they weren't fucking, and he knows that half the songs in this set are all of the words Enjolras couldn’t say then, that he definitely couldn’t say to his face even now. 
 
Here’s what Enjolras doesn’t know: Bossuet didn’t lose his pass. Grantaire is here.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to screwsfallout for helping me plot this out and actually finish it!

Enjolras’s phone buzzes right as he’s finishing his soundcheck. He’d been stuck on the west coast longer than he’d expected, because after the first movie did incredibly well he ended up in three more (and a miniseries). Tonight, he’s back on the east coast, ready to go back to Broadway and back to his _friends_. Grantaire is somewhere in Asia running Kendrick Lamar’s world tour, so tonight is going to be fun. He’s sold out the auditorium, and he’s singing his favorite songs, the ones that make him remember college nights running around Boston or the ones that make him feel things. 

But Enjolras’s phone just has to buzz.

It’s not him. It’s Courfeyrac, asking if Enjolras has an extra pass because Bossuet misplaced his. Luckily, Enjolras had anticipated that, and he quickly sends back an affirmative—Courfeyrac just has to come and get it when they get to the venue. Courfeyrac responds entirely in emojis, which is his way of wishing Enjolras luck.

Here’s what Enjolras does know: he knows that he hasn’t seen Grantaire since he said he didn’t feel anything for him when they weren't fucking, and he knows that half the songs in this set are all of the words Enjolras couldn’t say then, that he definitely couldn’t say to his face even now.

Here’s what Enjolras doesn’t know: Bossuet didn’t lose his pass. Grantaire is here.

 

:: ::

“Sorry… sorry…” Courfeyrac is breathless as he runs towards Enjolras. It’s only about fifteen minutes before he goes on, so he’s surrounded by managers and the band and everyone is either talking to him or pressing a water bottle in his hand or reminding him of something. “Combeferre’s got us in the middle, kind of near the back. You should still be able to see us, though.” 

“Awesome. Will Bossuet be able to find you?” Briefly, confusion flickers over Courfeyrac’s face, but he covers it quickly, his hand reaching out to touch Enjolras’s collar. 

“What are you wearing?” Courfeyrac’s voice is only a little nervous to not be suspicious. “Is that the fucking Hawaiian shirt you stole from someone at the Halloween party sophomore year?”

“Maybe?” Enjolras doesn’t really care. Apparently his fans like the “messy” aesthetic, and if Enjolras is going to be up there singing all of his best drug songs and all of the worst love songs, he’s going to be fucking comfortable.

“Well, it’s on brand for you. What set are you doing tonight?” Yeah. Enjolras hasn’t told them what he’s singing, because he wants it to be fun and surprising for his friends.

“You’ll see.” Courfeyrac wraps Enjolras in a quick hug, his hand lingering a little at the back of Enjolras’s neck.

“We’re glad you’re back.” Enjolras can smell a hint of vodka on Courfeyrac, but as Enjolras walks him back to the main area, there’s someone else waiting. “You don’t need to walk me all of the way back to the barrier.”

But it’s too late. Enjolras knows the way those curls bounce, knows the green button down and the tight jeans and he just… he knows.

Enjolras honestly thought he was stronger than this. It’s been months, but all it takes is one fucking look at that tattoo and Enjolras remembers the way his chest ached when he agreed to keep their relationship secret from the press and their friends, the way all Enjolras could hear was the ringing in his ears and all he could smell was the way the shitty motel room smelled like stale cigarettes and how Grantaire just left him there because he didn’t want him for anything more than a good fuck.

There’s something not quite right in Enjolras’s chest now. He needs to loosen up, because he owes it to the people out there who paid money for this to give them a good show. Everything’s just a little bit too forced, so Enjolras accepts the shot the guitarist offers him. And the next one. He knows he’s not brave, he knows he’s not strong, but the tequila feels warm going down his throat and it’s not so impossible to breathe now.

Though he wishes it wouldn’t, shame wells up into his stomach. Grantaire obviously doesn’t care, and it’s been a few months. Enjolras shouldn’t be reduced to nothing just by catching a glimpse of someone he never really dated. He shouldn’t have fallen in love with him in the first place, and he shouldn’t have let him do what he did, and even thinking about it makes all of his skin crawl.

Fuck it. Enjolras takes another shot.

He brushes off his manager’s concern, and he ignores all the texts from Courfeyrac apologizing for ruining the surprise. He’s got a fucking show to do. He probably won’t even see Grantaire in the crowd, Grantaire probably won’t know why Enjolras is singing the songs he is, Grantaire probably thinks Enjolras is over it.

It’s going to be fine.

 

 

 

The first part of the set goes so well that Enjolras almost forgets the way his lungs won’t quite expand like they should. The crowd is incredible; they’re singing and Enjolras (with some help from the tequila) is loose enough to dance and they’re fucking loving it. They go insane when he spits out _My Shot_ , when he goes through all the pop melodies that his friends loved during college, and the energy in the room is unreal. 

But that’s only the drugs songs part of this concert. He’s still got to get through the love songs. And the first one… it’s a double edged sword.

 

_The light is warm, and Enjolras wakes up with a smile on his face. Grantaire’s hair is tickling his neck, and he feels content. It’s the type of feeling that warms you up from that space between your heart and your ribs, and when he smiles, you can feel it all the way in the pads of your fingers and toes. He’s smiling now._

_“G’morning.” Grantaire’s voice is barely a mumble. “Don’t you have a rehearsal for that 54 Below show today?”_

_“Doesn’t matter. ‘M comfy.” Enjolras just buries his head into the space between Grantaire’s neck and shoulders. “I don’t even know what they want me to sing.”_

_“Don’t do Hallelujah. Everyone does that fucking song.” Enjolras just laughs, and Grantaire’s lips are on his neck now._

_“Maybe I will. Just to piss you off.” But then Grantaire’s lips are somewhere else and Enjolras thinks this is what it’s like to be happy with someone._

 

Enjolras isn’t sure how long he pauses, but it’s probably not that obvious, so he turns to the microphone, trying to make his smile look natural. 

“All right. This is where we start getting into the love songs. The first one is kind of a repeat, but I don’t think you guys are sick of it yet.” There’s a pause, and Enjolras looks to his band. He swallows the memory whole, and he wishes he could swallow the tight ball of whatever the fuck is creeping up through his heart and is growing in his lungs and his throat. But he just nods, and the familiar chords, the ones that normally make his muscles go lax and his heart open wide, they make his hands find the microphone to have something to hold onto, to keep him in the hall with all of these amazing people and not alone with Grantaire in some time that can’t be given back.

“I heard there was a secret chord…” Enjolras can’t bring himself to look out and meet Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s eyes. If he does, he’s never going to get through the rest of this song, and definitely not the rest of the set. The tequila is burning through his veins, and Enjolras tries looking up at the lights and down at the microphone, and the crowd is with him there, he’s taken them to to this place that he never wanted anyone to see, and then he hits that one fucking verse.

“I remember when I moved in you—“ Enjolras’s voice cracks harshly, and his eyes snap, instinctively, to where Grantaire is. He’s looking him in the face and he can feel his hands and he remembers all of those nights and every time is playing at once in his head and they won’t get out and it’s like his lungs have stuttered. But there’s nothing, there’s absolutely nothing except black in Grantaire’s eyes, disappointment maybe, or something that Enjolras has never been able to place. It’s the same look from that last morning, when the sky was grey but refusing to rain and Enjolras learned Grantaire never loved him. Enjolras can’t do it. He can’t fucking look at him a second longer or he’s going to break but he can’t look away. He’s stuck in place.

Enjolras can feel the electricity in the crowd, and it revives him enough to finish the song.

He has no idea how he’s going to get through this.

 

:: ::

Combeferre feels the second the mood shifts. He doesn’t know what happened, or why, but knows something is _wrong_. Enjolras isn’t acting; he sees that something is tearing Enjolras apart on the inside and the only way he’s getting it out is forcing the lyrics out of his throat and singing to whatever’s there that Combeferre can’t see.

And it’s like Combeferre’s stomach has been turned upside down. He has no idea what’s hurting his friend, he has no idea how he can help, and he can’t help but think that Enjolras has accidentally built a barricade out of the stage and his emotions are being fired at it like bullets but all they’re doing is rebounding and burying themselves inside of Enjolras again. 

Combeferre doesn’t know how much more of it Enjolras can take.

“Courfeyrac, when you went back there—“

“No. I don’t know what’s going on.” That crease between Courfeyrac’s eyebrows has appeared, and that’s how Combeferre knows that this is going to be bad. And there’s nothing they can do about it until Enjolras gets off the goddamn stage.

The reset of Les Amis don’t seem to notice yet, and when Enjolras starts up on a Kings of Leon cover, it’s almost like it never happened. But Combeferre knows it’s not going to stay better for long, and they’re all going to know.

Enjolras isn’t okay. That’s all that Combeferre is sure of, and so he’s already firing off texts to Enjolras’s crew and manager and everyone else trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.

And nobody has an answer.

What the fuck is going on?

 

:: ::

Enjolras thinks he’s doing okay, and all he’s got is an encore left. He’d acted his way through all of the other love songs, and if he doesn’t look at Grantaire he doesn’t feel like his heart is trying to impale itself on his ribs. But there’s guilt swirling around inside of him, now, because when he looks at Combeferre and Courfeyrac, trying to prove to them that he’s fine and they don’t need to worry, he just watches the creases deepen and the frowns lengthen on their faces.

But then Enjolras remembers what he’s about to sing. It’s a new mash-up, something he cooked up in the aftermath of Grantaire, but it’s never seen the light of day. But this crowd, they’ve been with him all night, they’ve kept him going when he thought he couldn’t breathe and they steadied his hands whenever they shook.

Enjolras isn’t brave enough to do this. The tequila is almost out of his system, and he looks down at his fingers and sees them tremble all the way through his finale, and he looks out and sees how he’s hurting Combeferre and Courfeyrac and all he can think is how it’s all his fault.

Maybe that’s why Grantaire doesn’t love him.

Enjolras hurts people. If he was better, he wouldn’t be hurting the people he loves like he knows he’s doing right now, he would have been able to control feelings that he has no fucking right to feel, he wouldn’t be so fucking _weak_ that he’s at the breaking point just looking at Grantaire. Grantaire doesn’t love him because Enjolras hurts everyone who’s around him and he can’t stop doing it. 

He can’t back out of the encore, though. But he doesn’t think he can sing it like this. He can’t breathe and if he can’t breathe he can’t sing and if he can’t sing he’ll disappoint his fans and Combeferre and Courfeyrac will worry and Grantaire will know that Enjolras can’t handle it. Grantaire will know what he’s done to him. And Enjolras can’t give him that power, too, when he already gave him his heart and Grantaire let it rot and fester on a dusty motel floor.

Enjolras runs off stage for a second, downing a few shots of tequila meant as a celebration for after this song. He needs something to make his bones stand straight and make his words leave his lips, and then he walks back out onto the stage. It only takes a few seconds; Enjolras was already feeling warm from the lights and what he’d drank before the show started, but now he’s just enough over the edge not to care that he’s about to destroy himself in front of everyone he loves.

“I’ve got a lot of friends here tonight, and they know how much I love the songs in this last one… it’s another two-parter. I wasn’t going to sing it, because I’ve never done this combination before, but you’ve been such an amazing crowd tonight.” Then, Enjolras grips the microphone as tightly as he can. He needs to ground himself because otherwise he’s going to fall away piece by piece until he’s a pile of dust on the stage.

“Turn down the lights, turn down the bed, turn down these voices inside my head…” Enjolras doesn’t even have to try to get that fragile kind of falsetto vibrato this song wants. Everything he’s tried not to feel; all of the memories of Grantaire, of their nights and when Enjolras laid down his heart and soul at Grantaire’s feet, they’re all playing in front of his eyes. He doesn’t see the crowd, he doesn’t see his friends—he’s stuck in the very place that he swore he would never return to.

“I can’t make you love me, if you don’t.” Enjolras may have the tequila helping him spit the words out, but it can’t stop him from seeing what he’d lost, what he hadn’t even fought for, so he shuts his eyes. “You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t…”

There’s a wall. Rather, there was a wall. Something has broken, and as the pianist transitions into the next part for him, Enjolras is suddenly acutely aware of how every beat of his heart hurts, of how much it all hurts, loving Grantaire.

He’s not sure how he stumbles through _All I ask_ , because he can’t even bring himself to open his eyes and knuckles are white against the microphone and every word is physically ripped from his throat; he never got a last night with Grantaire, a last shred of happiness to hold onto. He never got anything; no one knew he was hurting because he wasn’t supposed to because Grantaire never asked Enjolras to fall in love with him. But Enjolras had to go and fuck it up anyway.

This time, when it falls back into the first song, Enjolras summons every part of him back together. For the first time since Grantaire left, Enjolras looks into his eyes and doesn’t look away. He knows he’s pushing his voice, that his legs aren’t going to hold him up much longer, that the weight of the nerves of the concert and how he never eats before concerts and everything his brain has spiraled through again and again tonight and that his lungs can only do so much, but this is the only time he’s going to be able to look Grantaire in the face and tell him the truth.

Even if it breaks him.

“Because I can’t make you love me… If you don’t.” Enjolras knows that he can’t keep the hurt off of his face, and he doesn’t know what’s in Grantaire’s eyes but he needs him to fucking know what him leaving has done to Enjolras.

When the music ends, every false ounce of strength from the alcohol fades away.

“Thank you.” 

Enjolras doesn’t know how he gets off the stage, but it’s clear that the only thing keeping him going was the crowd’s energy, because he barely makes it back to the green room before his knees crumple and his head is in his hands and his ass is on the couch. There are voices, and they probably want something from him, but all Enjolras knows is that he can’t breathe. 

He’s told Grantaire everything.

For the first time since that morning, Enjolras lets himself fall apart.

 

:: ::

The time between Enjolras leaving the stage and Courfeyrac and Combeferre finally getting to the VIP entrance seems to last an eternity. Bahorel and Jehan tried their best to clear a path, because there’s not a single one of them whose heart isn’t beating in tandem with the worried frenzy of the others. But then, they’re there, and Enjolras’s manager is waiting, words pouring out of his mouth as quickly as possible.

“I don’t know what’s going on but he’s not responsive and—“ Enjolras’s manager is rushing Combeferre and Courfeyrac through the backstage. 

“Give him some space,” Combeferre says, the second he’s in the green room. In an instant, Enjolras’s head snaps up. His eyes are red-rimmed and there’s that look, that look that Combeferre can’t get out of his eyes. Enjolras, openly in pain, laying down his soul on a stage in front of hundreds of people he doesn’t know because for some reason he couldn’t tell anyone he does.

“Hey.” Courfeyrac’s voice is soft, and in an instant Enjolras is on his feet. Courfeyrac can see Enjolras’s hands shaking, and before anyone knows what’s going on Courfeyrac’s arms are around Enjolras and he’s holding him as tightly as he can. And it doesn’t look like he’s going to let him go until every little piece of Enjolras that has broken fits back together again.

Everyone else files out of the room, his manager with a few muttered words to Combeferre.

Enjolras, for his part, has frozen. He doesn’t cling back to Courfeyrac likes he wants to; he doesn’t react at all. His eyes are wide and haunted, looking past Courfeyrac and seemingly through Combeferre.

The door opens again.

The rest of his friends, they all rush in, and Enjolras steps away from Courfeyrac, steps as far back as he can.

Grantaire enters the room. Enjolras takes another step back. It’s small, but it’s definitely there.

Suddenly, Courfeyrac knows.

_He_ caused this. He thought Enjolras was sad because he hadn’t seen R so he got him to come back but oh my god he was so wrong. Courfeyrac doesn’t know how no one knew but Grantaire fucking smashed his best friend’s heart to pieces and then he thought he’d come back and do it again.

Now’s not the time for that. Enjolras’s breath audibly hitches, and then, without any warning, he’s in an anxiety attack. His chest is visibly moving, and his eyes are blown wide, his shaking hands going to his chest, which is now exploding from all of the pressure he ignored. The room is tilting and whirring and all he knows is there are hands on his shoulders and loud voices. All of a sudden the room feels emptier, and someone is touching his forehead to theirs, a hand gently guiding one of Enjolras’s to their own chest, a steady tempo and warm hands and Enjolras knows this person is safe.

But when he breathes again all he can see is the wild look in Grantaire’s eyes, can feel how close he was and how it was way too close but not nearly close enough. Enjolras thinks he feels the last tendon snap in his heart, and it drops down, burned out and cold, to the bottom of his ribcage.

He doesn’t feel real. He doesn’t feel anything at all.

But at least that means it’s stopped hurting.

 

:: ::

As soon as Enjolras starts panicking, his friends springs into action. Joly instantly steps forward, because he’s a fucking medical professional, but Bahorel just hauls him back and starts marching him out of the room. They all know that being there is making this worse, and so there’s no choice involved, really. Combeferre is quick about herding everyone else out, before stepping out into the hall himself. Courfeyrac can handle this, and the less people in there, the quicker Enjolras will calm down. That’s the priority.

“What the fuck is going on?” Bahorel asks, his voice shaking.

“I don’t know.” It hurts Combeferre to say the words, but he can’t lie or pretend. His best friend s on the other side of the door, hurting and panicking, and he’s stuck out here knowing that it’s just a piece of wood and a few feet physically, but in actuality an entire universe between where Enjolras is and everything else.

“R, you and Courf saw him before-hand. Did you notice anything?” This time it’s Jehan, his voice quiet.

“I only got a glimpse, but Courfeyrac didn’t say anything.” The half-truth tastes awful leaving Grantaire’s mouth, but he can’t tell them. He doesn’t want to lose them. “He might just be strung out. This was the biggest show he played, and you know how he gets when he’s nervous.”

“Well, I think we’re just going to take him home to start,” Combeferre decides, taking his glasses off and methodically cleaning them with his shirt. “And I’m sorry, but—“

“Having all of us there wasn’t helping, so you don’t want us to crowd him again. Totally cool; we get it,” Bahorel finishes for Combeferre, trying to keep his tone calm and supportive, but the worry seeps through the cracks between the words. “Just keep us updated.”

“It was an incredible show. Make sure he knows that.” That’s Cosette, now, gently squeezing Combeferre’s arm as she takes a few steps back. “Let us know if any of you need anything.”

Combeferre almost wishes that they would have put up more of a fight, because god knows he has some anger to get rid of, but it warms some small part of him to see how much they care, of how brilliantly they’ve handled the situation. He notices that Grantaire lingers for just a little longer, like he’s going to say something, but then he just follows the rest of them out.

With a slow, calming breath, Combeferre steps back into the green room. Courfeyrac is pressing his forehead against Enjolras’s, his hand holding Enjolras’s to his chest, and he’s whispering constant encouragement, and Combeferre can hear Enjolras’s breathing slowing little by little. Combeferre just watches for a few seconds, before leaving Courfeyrac to do what only he can.

He talks to Enjolras’s manager, who clears Enjolras’s schedule for a few days, and he promises to let him know what’s going on, as well. He gathers all of Enjolras things and packs them neatly back into his backpack and then he goes back to the room. Everything is set; he just hopes that there’s something else he can do, because he may be doing _things_ but he’s not with Enjolras, and that feels like he’s not doing anything at all.

This time, Courfeyrac is sitting next to Enjolras, and Enjolras is staring straight ahead. His eyes are still missing the _Enjolras_ in them, but Courfeyrac is talking to him anyways, occasionally squeezing his knee or something. 

“Hey, let’s go home. Okay?” Courfeyrac says, standing up. Combeferre isn’t sure what Enjolras is going to do, but he just mechanically stands up, swaying just a little bit. Without any preamble, Combeferre is bundling him into his coat, wrapping his arm around his friend. Honestly, Combeferre is pushing back the urge to check Enjolras’s pulse, to make sure that they’re not dealing with anything physical on top of everything. But Courfeyrac’s breath tickles his ear, as if he can read his mind.

“His vitals are fine, ‘Ferre,” he whispers. “Let’s just get him home.”

And that’s what they do. Combeferre loses track of how many questions Courfeyrac and himself ask their friend in the car, but he’s just curled up against the window, eyes staring as the buildings fly past. He’s not crying, or if he is it’s silent, and it terrifies Combeferre. He just wants to hold Enjolras until he knows that, whatever he’s going through, he’s not alone in it. He wants Enjolras to pull himself out of whatever agony that can’t decide whether it wants to hurt his heart or his brain or his stomach or anywhere else enough so that he can tell them what’s wrong. He just wants to be able to help Enjolras.

When Combeferre unlocks Enjolras’s apartment, Enjolras walks straight past the living room.

“Shower,” he croaks out, and it sounds like Enjolras is swallowing razors. Combeferre can hear how hard it was to force even one word out, so he doesn’t stop Enjolras.

“Come back out when you’re done, though. You’ve got to eat something,” Courfeyrac says, giving Enjolras a small smile. “We’ll be right here.”

Courfeyrac could have sworn he saw Enjolras nod. As soon as they hear the shower sputter on, Courfeyrac turns to Combeferre.

“This is bad,” is all he says, as he flicks to his favorite Spotify playlist and turns to Enjolras’s small kitchen.

“Do you know why… why—“ Combeferre can’t find the right words for what he wants to ask, but he thinks the point comes across.

“I have an idea.” It’s said hesitantly, and Courfeyrac can’t look at his best friend. “I don’t know for sure, but… god, I hope I’m not right.” Courfeyrac looks down at his fidgeting hands before going to look through the cupboards, hopefully to find some pasta or something that would go down easily for Enjolras.

Enjolras has been back for a week, and the kitchen is still bare bones. There’s some salt, some spices, and a single box of pasta. The fridge isn’t much better; there’s a lot of water bottles in it, but there’s only two boxes of leftover take-out, a half gallon of milk, and half a stick of butter, otherwise. Courfeyrac takes a steadying breath, having to actively try not to cry. 

“Shit,” Combeferre whispers, but he just pulls out a pot and sets the water to boil, because he may feel like the apartment is crumbling to the ground around them, but he knows that there are things to be done. “What do you think—“

“I think it’s R.” Courfeyrac watches his friend’s face for any sign of a reaction, but it’s like Combeferre has gone blank, too. When he doesn’t respond, Courfeyrac keeps going. “I think they had something and then R broke it off and it really hurt Enjolras but he pushed it away and then he saw him again tonight."

“He said he didn’t know anything.” There’s disbelief, now, because Combeferre could not believe that Grantaire stood in front of them, in front of all of them, knowing exactly why Enjolras was hurting, and he pretended that he had no fucking clue. 

“You didn’t see Enjolras’s face when he stepped into the room, ‘Ferre.” Now there are tears streaming down Combeferre’s face freely, because everything is so perfectly clear and Combeferre can’t decide if he wants to strangle Grantaire for doing that to his friend, or if he just wants to wrap Enjolras in blankets and stay with him until he’s better. Courfeyrac wraps his arms around Combeferre, rocking him slightly. “I’m sorry.”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it? R hit that rough patch before he took the Kendrick job, and no one knew why. And Enjolras was pretty absent before he left for L.A..”

“We don’t anything for sure. Enjolras has to tell us himself.” After that, they don’t talk. They listen to music and cook and set up the living room with blankets and pillow and movies, and they wait for the sound of the shower shutting off.

When it actually comes, Courfeyrac is too busy humming to One Direction and helping Combeferre finish up the pasta to notice.

 

:: ::

Enjolras showers with water so hot his skin is still a little red when he shuffles his way back out to his living room. He feels more real, now, and it takes one look at his friends, happy and humming along to whatever the hell Courfeyrac is playing, for the overwhelming emptiness of having to see everything he’s never going to have to to return in its full force.

No, he has to try and keep it together. He hates to infringe on their happiness, but he knows hiding in the bathroom or the bedroom is just going to draw everything out longer, and he’s too tired for that, now. He sees all of the pictures of his friends around the apartment, he feels the cold spring breeze, but the only thing thrumming through his brain is Grantaire. He can’t fucking get over how R looked better, healthier, sexier, like getting rid of Enjolras threw off a deadweight.

“What are you making?” Enjolras winces at how harsh and rough his voice sounds.Instantly, Courfeyrac is at his side and Combeferre is in front of him, plates of pasta forgotten on the countertop.

“Hey. Let’s go to the living room and talk first,” Courfeyrac says, his voice soft and his hand softly rubbing circles on Enjolras’s back.

“I… I’m fine. Can we just eat?” Enjolras tries to get out, but his hands are shaking and his knees are trembling and he knows he’s not going to be able to keep the pain off of his face for much longer. Courfeyrac, because he knows Enjolras too well, just gently leads him towards the couch. Enjolras doesn’t sit. He doesn’t know why, but he knows that if he sits on that couch he’s going to start talking and it’s going to hurt and he just wants it to be over. He doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

“What’s going on, E?” Combeferre asks, standing far enough away so that Enjolras doesn’t feel caged, but close enough to let him know he’s there if he needs him. His voice is soft and gentle and Enjolras can’t look at them anymore or he’s going to—

Enjolras lets out a noise, harsh and animalistic, but he can’t physically hold in the pain anymore. His heart is exploding with the knowledge that Grantaire is fine, that he still loves him so much but Grantaire doesn’t love him back and Enjolras feels something inside him buckle. His knees give out because Enjolras can’t think, can’t feel anything but his shattered heart. He can’t see Courfeyrac or Combeferre or anything anymore, but he feels hands on his back, can feel that they’re right next to him, but it feels like they’re still across the country.

Before he knows it, Enjolras is crying. His body is letting out dry, wracking sobs that shift his ribcage with their force and Enjolras can’t breathe and he feels like he’s going to throw up because Grantaire never loved him. Enjolras’s body is stood up, before something warm and whole wraps him up in its arms and he feels something pressing his face into their neck.

Enjolras clings back tightly. He can’t do this anymore.

“I love him.” He’s not sure if the words sound right around the tears, but he’s said it and he’s going to keep saying it until it stops hurting. “I love him, ‘Ferre. And he—“

“It’s okay, Enj. Breathe,” Combeferre says, his voice soft in Enjolras’s ears. But Enjolras just pulls away, stumbling back.

“No. I have to say this.” Enjolras’s eyes are wild, but he sees the riot of worry on his best friends’ faces. He knows he looks like shit, but now that he’s talking the words are building up in his throat and the pressure isn’t going to go away until he frees them.

“Okay. Can you sit down, though? You’re a little unsteady on your feet, mon ami.” Courfeyrac all but drags Enjolras to the couch this time, pushing him down onto the cushions before choosing a side and leaning Enjolras into him. On his other side, Combeferre just wraps his arms around his friend.

“I love him.” Enjolras is still crying, the tears running down his face freely, ugly and fast and completely unrestrained. “He didn’t want anyone to know, and we just… we’d meet in motels and we’d fuck and then we’d leave and do it all again a week later. But I love him and I was going to tell him and then he said he didn’t feel anything when we weren’t fucking and we shouldn’t see each other anymore and I just—I love him so much and I couldn’t tell him and it just… is it supposed to hurt this much? Because I thought it would go away, but it just got worse.” After that, Enjolras can’t form words anymore.

“Oh, Enj,” Courfeyrac says, pulling Enjolras in as tightly as he can. “It’s okay that it still hurts.”

“He left. He just left and I never—“ Enjolras’s breath hitches, and Courfeyrac puts a steadying hand on Enjolras’s neck, letting Enjolras put his face against Courfeyrac’s chest and finally lets it all go.

“It’s okay.” Courfeyrac just keeps repeating that phrase, over and over and over again. Combeferre is rubbing circles on Enjolras’s back, murmuring nothings as they watch their best friend fall apart right in front of them.

“We’ll get you through this. It’ll get better,” Combeferre promises. He feels the pieces of Enjolras sliding between his fingers like sand.

Combeferre can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Enjolras hurting this much. The first was when he was twelve and his mother died; he remembers holding Enjolras as his entire body shook, following him out into the hall when he’d leave class and wipe off the tears streaming down his best friend’s face. He remembers when Enjolras was fifteen, when the anxiety and stress of high school, of SATs and not knowing anything he wanted to do besides play music, withered away at his sleep and his bones. He remembers sitting next to Enjolras’s hospital bed, after the anxiety got so bad he couldn’t eat without throwing up and no one knew until he passed out in the middle of calc class. He remembers when someone outed Enjolras on social media just when his career was getting started.

Nothing comes close to this, though.

“I don’t know… I don’t… why doesn’t he love me?” Courfeyrac feels something crack inside of him. “I tried… but I… I couldn’t make him love me back. What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing, Enj. You did nothing wrong.” Courferyac’s voice is barely stronger than Enjolras’s. “I know you don’t believe it, but you have to know that. You didn’t do _anything_ wrong.”

“Then why was I wrong? If I didn’t do anything wrong it means that _I_ am what’s wrong.” Enjolras looks between his friends, his eyes wide and filled with tears that won’t stop falling from his eyelids.

“You aren’t wrong, Enj.” Combeferre can’t stand the way the words crack and hurt leaving his throat, but it hurts because Enjolras somehow thinks that he wasn’t enough. One of the kindest, fiercest, most loving people he knows thinks that there’s something fundamentally wrong with him, and Combeferre doesn’t know how to fix it. “I promise you.”

“There has to be, or he would have—“

“No, Enj. It’s… it’s not you. If Grantaire didn’t love you, it’s because _he_ didn’t. Not because of anything you did or anything that you are,” Courfeyrac tries to explain, but his heart aches and strains against its own tendons. “You’re not wrong. You’re wonderful and kind and bright and a thousand other things.”

That’s when Enjolras starts crying so hard that he can’t respond. He’s hiccuping and gasping and heaving and Combeferre isn’t sure he’s taking in any oxygen at all.

“Hey. Breathe with me,” he beckons, pulling Enjolras up off of Courfeyrac enough so that he’s sitting up, so that his airways are open and it’s easy for Combeferre to hold Enjolras’s trembling hand to his chest, forcing his own heart rate to remain under control, and thankfully it’s enough so that Enjolras’s erratic sobs soften into silent, desperate tears that fall down Enjolras’s face freely.

Now, Enjolras is slumped against Combeferre, boneless and exhausted. Courfeyrac moves to support his other side, resting his head against Enjolras’s shoulder and wrapping an arm around his back. 

“We’re going to get you through this, Enj. It’s going to get better. I promise,” he whispers, thumb gently trying to brush the salt water from off of his friend’s face. 

“How? It hurts so much,” Enjolras says, his voice shaking. “How does it stop hurting?”

“Time, Enj. And knowing that it wasn’t your fault,” Combeferre says. “And knowing that we’re here for you and that we love you.”

Then, Courfeyrac just takes one of Enjolras’s shaking, bony hands into his own, threading their fingers together and refusing to let go.

“We’re here. We’re not leaving,” he promises, leaning over to plant a kiss on his friend’s forehead.

“Come on, Enj. You’ve got to eat something,” Combeferre urges, trying to work Enjolras into a sitting position. He’s basically fighting gravity at this point, because Enjolras is boneless and uncooperative; all he wants to do is lean against his friends and let their warmth and kindness calm him to sleep. 

“Don’t want to,” he mumbles, his voice hoarse and scratchy.

“I made pasta,” Courfeyrac says, his voice deliberately light. “Come on, let’s eat and watch shitty movies. I’ll even stop Combeferre from putting on Atlantis.”

“I don’t know if it’s possible,” Enjolras whispers, but he manages a small smile, so Combeferre is going to take it.

“Well, then, Mr. Movie Critic. What do you want to watch?” Combeferre asks the question with a nudge, as Courfeyrac slips away to grab the food before Enjolras can go non-responsive and stubborn again.

“Can we watch Dead Poets?”

Enjolras is asleep before Keating’s first lesson. Efficiently, Courfeyrac scoops up his friend, bringing Enjolras to his bed, where he immediately curls up in the warmth. Shutting the door, he heads back out to Combeferre. There is work to be done.

 

:: ::

“They called. They’re worried about Enjolras, and they want to be filled in.” Combeferre says, rinsing off the dishes and methodically placing them in the dishwasher. 

“It might be good now, for Enjolras to have them here. He needs a lot of support right now.” Courfeyrac’s voice is hesitant, not sure if Combeferre is going to agree with him, but he’s rewarded with a nod.

“I’ll text Bahorel. I just… I don’t understand why Grantaire just stood there, like he didn’t know what it was.” Combeferre sounds so tired, and a thought crosses Courfeyrac’s mind.

“He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t come here, right? With them?”

“No. He better not,” Combeferre answers. There’s a pause, as he considers the possibility. “He’s too smart to do that.” One of the many things Combeferre cannot understand about tonight is how fucking uncaring Grantaire has been; during the concert, his face never changed, even when he had to have known. Even if he didn’t feel what Enjolras did, they’ve been friends for years. He had to have _cared_ that Enjolras was hurting. How could he stand there and look at Enjolras falling to pieces and just… not do anything?

“What do we even tell them?” Courfeyrac asks. “How do we explain what happened without exposing Enjolras even more?”

That’s when he and Combeferre start laying out a plan. They’ll explain what the know about the secret fling between their two friends, and how long Enjolras has been holding on to the secret Grantaire wanted so desperately to keep. They’ll keep it factual, because even though Combeferre hates the fact, they can’t villainize one of their closest friends. 

It all goes to hell, though, the second Grantaire slinks into the apartment.

Courfeyrac can’t hear anything but his own blood pounding in his ears, and the next thing he’s aware of is Bahorel’s hands pushing him away and the sting in his right knuckles. He looks at Grantaire, who had the fucking nerve to show up here after everything he’s done, and sees the blood coming from his nose, and he feels no regret.

“What the fuck, man?” Bahorel yells, and Courfeyrac is ready to go for another hit, because Grantaire doesn’t even fucking look ashamed right now, but he stops at the sound of Combeferre’s voice.

“I want you to leave, Grantaire. Now.” It’s not that his voice is boiling (like it feels Courfeyrac’s blood is doing in his veins), but the opposite; the room has frozen to match the timbre of Combeferre’s quiet power.

“What the fuck, Courf?” is all Grantaire spits out, accepting the paper towel Joly offers to start mopping up the blood on his face. “This isn’t my fault, Combeferre. I can’t control Enjolras’s feelings.”

“Do you really not understand what you’ve done?” Courfeyrac asks, finally freed from Bahorel’s hold. He looks around, from the realization on Feuilly’s and Bahorel’s faces, to Jehan’s wide eyes, and finally to Grantaire. He’s standing there, bold as brass, like the punch or Combeferre’s words did nothing to faze him.

“I am not responsible for what happened tonight.” Grantaire’s voice is calm. “Enjolras’s feelings are his business, and just because I don’t reciprocate them doesn’t mean that I’m the villain here.”

In that moment, part of Combeferre wishes that Bahorel hadn’t pulled Courfeyrac off of Grantaire so quickly. But the rest of him focuses on how cold he feels when he looks at Grantaire, and he takes a breath. He needs to get Grantaire out of here before it wakes Enjolras up. The last thing he’s going to let Grantaire do in the near future is get anywhere near his best friend. 

“Enjolras’s feelings might not be your fault, but what happened tonight is. You had no idea what he had been feeling after you broke it off, and when it became obvious you said nothing. That is on you.”

“That’s not fair,” Grantaire protests, his eyes meeting Combeferre’s unflinching, unforgiving gaze. He knows if he looks around he’ll see the disgust on everyone’s faces as they look at him, because when Enjolras decides to fucking break everyone runs to his side, because he can’t handle anything like a normal human being. But he’s not backing down. If Enjolras really cared that much, then he’d be the one fighting with Grantaire, not fucking _Combeferre_.

“He kept your secret, even when it was tearing him up inside. How can you stand there and not care about that?” Now Combeferre’s voice is louder, but equally as harsh as before. “How can you—” But Combeferre’s words never leave his mouth.

There, leaning heavily against the part of the hallway before it expands into the living room, is Enjolras. He’s rubbing at his eyes, shoulders slumped, curls wild, dark circles pulling his abnormally dull eyes down to his cheekbones. Enjolras looks like he’s been playing Atlas, that the weight of the world and all of its burdens has somehow fallen on top of his shoulders. 

Everyone freezes. Enjolras is sluggish, but his eyes—his eyes, barely brighter than the cloudiest day, blown wide with shock and all the pain he can’t hide—eventually travel from Courfeyrac’s bloody knuckles to Combeferre’s crease between his eyes that he gets when he’s angry or worried, and finally to Grantaire’s face, completely unbothered. If he’d looked around, he’d see Joly’s shocked, wide eyes, Jehan’s worry, or the way Feuilly’s face falls. But he doesn’t have the chance to, because Bahorel is in front of him in an instant, putting his hands on Enjolras’s shoulders and saying something that doesn’t register over the ringing in his ears as he turns Enjolras around, leading him away from whatever’s been happening. He doesn’t need to hear any of this, not when he looks like he’s falling apart more and more with each step Bahorel guides him to take.

Even with the door shut in the bedroom, even with Bahorel wrapping Enjolras in a hug to shield him from what’s still happening in his own living room, Enjolras can hear his best friend and Gr—and _him_ perfectly.

“Leave, Grantaire.” Combeferre’s voice leaves no room for an argument.

“No. Not until you get your head out of your ass—”

“Do you know what happened before you got here? I have never—” But Combeferre stops himself. He can’t tell them what happened, because Grantaire does _not_ get to know how much he’s hurt Enjolras. Not when it’s obvious that he doesn’t care.

“I’m waiting.”

“Well, I’m waiting for you to leave.”

“Come on, R, let’s—” That’s Joly, now. Then everything is lost in the sounds of scuffling, and Enjolras looks at Bahorel, surprised at how blurry everything is.

Enjolras forgets that he was done crying. He forgets, like he wishes he could forget when Grantaire’s voice was soft and Enjolras thought he loved him back, and before he knows what’s happening his face is against Bahorel’s shoulder and he’s crying. He’s crying because it’s not just him who’s hurting now, he’s crying because Grantaire doesn’t care, he’s crying because Combeferre does, and he’s crying because he feels like there’s something dark, something wrong, in his stomach that’s made him like this in the first place.

He forgets that Bahorel is there as he cries himself back into unconsciousness.

 

:: ::

The next morning, the only feeling Enjolras registers is that he doesn’t feel like leaving his blanket, so he just stumbles into the living room with it still around his shoulders. Courfeyrac is watching _Say Yes to the Dress_ , all curled up on the sofa, and Combeferre is making something that smells awesome, so he just walks over to the living room and leans himself against Courfeyrac. Instantly, an arm wraps around Enjolras and pulls him closer; Enjolras can see the bruised knuckles now, and his thin fingers ghost over them.

“Hey, there,” Courfeyrac mumbles, and Enjolras feels Courfeyrac’s wild curls tickle his throat. “Don’t worry about that. Doesn’t even hurt.” 

“You punched him?” Enjolras asks, wincing at how hoarse his voice sounds. His face feels tight, the residual, dried saltwater pulling at his forehead as it creases. 

“He deserved it. It’s too early to worry about that right now, though,” Courfeyrac says. “Meredith is going to choose the ugly dress, I can feel it in my bones.”

“How much is the dress?” Enjolras asks, relaxing into Courfeyrac’s warmth and the familiar dramatics that occur whenever Courfeyrac turns on TLC.

“Like fourteen thousand or something crazy,” Courfeyrac responds. When Enjolras doesn’t respond, Courfeyrac just gives him a little squeeze. “Are you doing okay, E?”

“Yeah. Just… thinking.” Enjolras is trying to piece together the end of last night; he remembers Combeferre’s voice sending chills through his bones and he remembers seeing Grantaire and he remembers Bahorel, but the rest after that is a blur. 

“Bahorel just left,” Combeferre comments, sitting on Enjolras’s other side and pressing a mug of tea into his best friend’s hands. Now, his voice is warm, like it was every other time he’s spoken except for last night. “You kind of koala-clung to him when you fell asleep, so he stayed over.”

“He would have stayed longer, but he has to go teach that class at the gym. I think Jehan is coming over soon, too; they texted me something about pastry preferences,” Courfeyrac adds.

“He didn’t have to do that,” Enjolras says, frowning. “I really made a mess of things last night, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t. It was an incredible concert.” Combeferre’s voice is firm.

“I’ve lost him, haven’t I?” Enjolras asks. He refuses to cry again, but his lip is trembling and it’s taking all he has to hold it together.

“He doesn’t matter. You don’t need him,” Courfeyrac says. “We’re going to get you through this.”

“We’re here and we love you. We’re not going anywhere, no matter what happens.” Combeferre reaches out a hand.

Enjolras exhales, and squeezes his best friend’s hand. If Courfeyrac looks close enough, he can almost see the first part of Grantaire swirling away from his friend, can see his shoulders lift a millimeter higher and his friend’s eyes brighten just a little bit.

Enjolras inhales again, the sweetness of Combeferre’s fruit tea and the warmth of Courfeyrac’s head against his shoulder filling his nose.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t cry. That’s a start.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Once again, it has been awhile, but college. I am about a week from my first final, but after then I might be able to actually finish the 84 things I've started. As always, please let me know if you liked it, and if you ever want to talk or yell or rant, my tumblr is thoseunheard.tumblr.com.


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